Lesson Learned

This was the last column I wrote.  It was published in the June 13, 2012 Millard County Chronicle.  The following week I was in Maryland, Pennsylvania, and Washington DC with my family and since coming home five days ago, I have been suffering from writer's block and haven't written a word--not on Facebook, email, or blogger (until today).  If anyone has some good ideas for a new column, I could REALLY use some help!!  

The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest is the name of the third book in Stifg Larsson's Millennium trilogy, but I believe that title should belong to me. Perhaps even a plaque or trophy engraved with those words should be sitting on my fireplace mantle.

            Part way through my third grade year, my family moved from Hinckley to Pleasant Grove, Utah while my dad worked on a large construction job. I attended the rest of the school year at Central Elementary School, but our Pleasant Grove home sold sooner than my parents anticipated, so we had to move into an intermediary place for the summer. We rented a trailer next to the Provo River from June to August while dad finished his work commitment.  Most of our belongings (including all our toys and books) were packed in preparation for the final move back to Hinckley at the end of August. It started out as the most boring summer of my life.

            My brother, Jim, found a trailer-park friend to play with, but I had no one. So, I spent many weeks sitting by the river throwing rocks and sticks into the water and looking for fish and frogs. Within days of moving in, a bad storm blew a hornet nest out of a tree between our trailer and the river's bank. The next morning I saw the gray, papery nest, which was about 10 inches long and shaped like a fat football with a large split along one side laying on the ground. I gave it a wide berth because it made buzzing sounds and had a cloud of insects hovering around it. As the weeks went by; however, it grew quiet and I no longer noticed hornets attending it.

            One morning, I must have been feeling especially frustrated about living in a trailer down by the river because as I walked through the muddy grass, I decided I was sick of walking around that old, abandoned nest lying in my pathway and I gave it a mighty kick. My bare foot sunk deep through the papery layers of the nest as it lifted off the ground and into the air, tearing apart as it flew. Hornets poured out of the shattered mess looking for the culprit who had just destroyed their home.

            I was instantly engulfed in a swarm. Stings were coming so fast and furious all I could do was run, scream, and swing my arms. I was wailing like a siren as I tore up the hill and down the road. It must have been quite a spectacle for all the neighbors to see a skinny kid screaming and running through the trailer park surrounded by a horde of enraged insects.

            My mom heard my shrieks and was out the door to meet me. Quite a few hornets were still attached as she brought me into the trailer. An hour later, my entire body was encased in baking soda plasters and I was on my bed trying to find the least painful position to lie. There were too many red, swelling bumps to count; I remember there were even stings between my toes and fingers.

            I have not read the Larsson book with the same title as the misfortune I encountered that summer day in 1970, but I am willing to bet that if Stifg Larsson's character kicked anything as volatile as the hornet's nest I found, we both learned the same lesson and will never do that again.

Chicken Moving Day

This is the column I submitted for next week's Millard County Chronicle.   Blog followers and family will recognize the story, but Chronicle readers have yet to be subjected to these particular teenage antics of Jim and Georgia Shumway...

On the last day of my sophomore year at Delta High School, my family moved onto Main Street, into what had been a boarding house at some point in Hinckley history. The home was just north of the empty lot by Morris Mercantile and had an overgrown hedge enclosing three sides of the large front lawn. It had been sitting empty for a few years so it required some cleaning and fixing-up as we transitioned to living there. My dad immediately began building a kitchen, bathroom, and laundry room on the south side of the home and my mother cooked in our travel trailer that summer and fall while he completed the project. In addition to the new rooms on the house, dad also built a chicken coop at the bottom of the lot behind the store.

Dad had sold our sheep, cows, goats, and other farm animals; but Jim, Mark, and I had continued to feed and water the chickens at our old house until the new henhouse was complete. One bright summer day, dad assigned Jim and I to transport the 50 best layers from the old coop to their newly completed abode. He told us to each take a couple of gunnysacks and put one or two hens in each bag, making as many trips as necessary to complete the transfer. Jim and I started the task and had made a couple of trips back and forth with two hens in each sack. As we walked back for the third load, we figured out how many trips it was going to take us to move the rest of the chickens and decided that we’d get done quicker if we put more chickens in each bag. The next trip we put three chickens in each bag and when we arrived we dumped them out and ran back for the next load. Being the wise 13- and 16-year-olds that we were, we decided that if it speeded up to carry three each time, we could hasten the job even more if we carried four or five each trip. When we got back to the old coop and started stuffing birds into bags, it suddenly became a contest to see who could get the most chickens in a gunnysack and carried to the new place. A gunnysack filled with five or six plump hens was so heavy, instead of carrying the bags it became more of ‘drag’ race. Back we ran for the next installment of chicken stuffing. There were about 20 hens still strutting around the old coop; we chased and wrestled eight of them into the bags and then realized if we just crammed a couple more in to each sack it would be mission accomplished!

The gunnysacks were stretched so full of feathered bodies and were so heavy, we could hardly heave, push, and pull them through the fields, over a few fences, down the road, and through a ditch to the new place. It took us a longer to haul those last sacks of birds and when we finally arrived our arms ached and our hearts pounded with the exertion. We tried to dump the load of hens out, but they were so wedged and jammed, it took some hard shaking to empty those sacks. When the bottom layer of chickens finally tumbled out, they were completely limp and lifeless. Jim and I realized with horror we had asphyxiated nearly a third of our flock. We were patting those chickens and trying to figure out if mouth to beak resuscitation would work when we heard the familiar sound of the back screen door slamming and peeked out to realize our dad was heading down to check our progress. We were panicked! Ron Shumway was not known for his sense of humor and we were sure we would soon be as dead as our limp hens appeared if we didn't experience an immediate miracle. We were desperately picking up little heads on floppy necks and violently shaking them hoping they would revive and save our backsides from the skinning we knew we deserved.

It seemed like a movie with the camera cutting between Jim and I and our pile of lifeless chickens back to my Dad who distractedly moseyed down the path making his way to the coop. Just as he reached the door, those poor hens started to come to and were drunkenly getting to their feet, some of them wobbling badly.

Dad asked us how it was going and we tried to act nonchalant as we picked up our gunnysacks and told him we had just finished. He commented that we had done that job much faster than he had expected. Jim and I felt as wilted as those hens had been minutes before when we realized what a bullet we had dodged. We leaned against the wall of the coop for awhile watching the chickens explore their new home before we found the strength to make our way back to the house.

Theoretically, we learned an important lesson about taking the time to do a job right and not taking shortcuts, but in reality we probably just became aware that we could cut corners if we were really, really lucky.

Graduations Galore

May has been a landmark month for the Crouch family.  We had a similar year in 2009 when Kevin and Danielle received their bachelor degrees simultaneously (same day/same time) at opposite ends of the state (Dani at SUU in Cedar City and Kevin at USU in Logan).  Then Bryan graduated from Weber High School and a couple of weeks later Dani and Kelly were married and moved to Baltimore.  Several months later, but still in 2009, Bryan received his mission call to Budapest, Hungary.

So this is another amazing year.  Although we didn't have a wedding this year (thank you Kevin and Lindsey for spreading things out a bit with Lindsey's graduation and the wedding in 2011), we had two masters degrees, a bachelors degree and a high school graduation all take place this month of May 2012.

To break it down, Kevin received his Masters in Instructional Technology from Utah State University;  Danielle received a Masters in Arts of Teaching from Johns Hopkins University; Kelly received his Bachelors degree in History from Towson University; and Camille graduated from Weber High.   As a side note Bryan and I both earned Associate degrees--he from Weber State University and I from Utah State--this month too.

Let's see...does that make 2015 our next big year?  Kevin and Dani, you get to work on those Doctorate degrees,  Kelly and Lindsey on your Masters ...

Common Milkweed

          I spent this morning working in my yard. My wrists and fingers are now stiff and the palm of my right hand has a large flat blister from the handle of my weeding tool. Every year I think I should have fewer weeds since I work so diligently to rid my yard of the annoying vegetation throughout the growing season, but each spring I find a bumper crop of unwanted plants in my garden, beds, and lawn. As I was bending over a patch of green in my garden, I suddenly recognized the shape and pattern of the leaves of a six-inch-high seedling and I paused with my weeding tool poised in midair. Should I leave it and allow it to grow or yank the sucker out?

            My friend, Lynette Hepworth, and I had a fort in a canal south of my house where the milkweed grew along the ditch bank and corral fence. In early June the milkweed began to flower with big pinkish purple globes made up of smaller, individual flowers which attracted bees and butterflies. A few weeks later we would notice striped caterpillars growing fatter and longer as they feasted on the large fuzzy leaves. As the weather heated up, some of the chewed leaves sported green chrysalises hanging from them which eventually opened to reveal bright orange butterflies. We felt like entomologists as we witnessed the metamorphic stages of the Monarch within the realm of our fortress.

            Butterflies love the common milkweed. That is one reason I considered leaving the plantlet to grown amongst my tomatoes and cantaloupe, but a second reason was the memory of how creative Lynette and I were with the milkweed plants in our ditch all those years ago. We discovered the milky-like latex substance running through the vascular tissue of the milkweed is a useful glue. Breaking a stock gave us enough sticky white sap to affix our artwork  and notes to the trees and fence posts along the edges of our fort. As the milkweed continued to mature, the seed pods grew larger in size and developed thicker walls.  Split pods functioned as cups for sand, pebbles, and small shells we found in the ditch. We had quite an assortment of pods lining the ditch bank filled with our collections. The most wonderful thing about milkweed was the fluffy fibers attached to the seeds. Hours were spent splitting open the pods, allowing the fuzz to dry and then setting the silky stuff free on the breeze. We made up stories about princesses in ball gowns, raging snowstorms, billowing clouds, and downy kittens and puppies while propelling  milkweed seeds from our hands. It was more fun than blowing bubbles as we watched the milkweed fluff float away. Lynette and I are probably responsible for propagating a milkweed explosion across Millard County that causes problems for ranchers and farmers to this very day. Perhaps the sprout I found this morning here in Weber County is a descendant of a milkweed that grew in Hinckley more than forty years ago…

            These thoughts and memories flashed through my mind as I stood over a volunteer plant rooted in my garden. Somehow the common milkweed didn't seem quite so common at that moment.

Allergic to Regret

To those who have been reading my blog for awhile, I apologize.  

I wrote a post very similar to this last year.  

 I tweaked it slightly and am using it for this next week's Chronicle column.

          I stepped outside yesterday and caught a scent which pulled me through the space/time continuum to a tight and confining spot, even for a small child.  The floor was layered with decades of fragrant, dried leaves beneath and a canopy of thin, and slightly velvety, gray-green foliage above.

          When I was five years old, I found this place, which became my favorite hiding place.  Unfortunately, I was the type of kid who felt the need to hide from my little brother, Jim, who was only two at the time and practically worshiped me. Equally unfortunate is how much I regret my hateful hiding habits of 45 years ago.

          The slightly tangy aroma that wafted across the breezes yesterday afternoon was the scent of Russian Olive blossoms and the hiding place of all those years ago was underneath an enormous Russian Olive tree that sat on the border of ours and Harold Morris' property.  The old tree had a huge circumference, but was so low to the ground, it required a crouch, a crawl and then an army-man scootch to position myself under it.  Once past the lowest hanging boughs, I could sit Indian-style, but I preferred to roll onto my back and enjoy the light filtering through those leaves and breath in that distinctive fragrance of the flowers while I listened to the distant sound of little Jim calling, "Dorda", "Doooorda!" as he toddled around the yard.

          Throughout the years of growing up in that house and playing in, around, and under that huge tree, I don't recall ever having allergies, but for the past 30 years, I can mark the exact day the Russian Olives bloom because my eyes water, my nose runs and the back of my throat itches to the point of wanting to scratch it with a sharp pencil.  I bear it as bravely as possible, because I am positive this is punishment for hiding from my sweet, little brother.  I wish he would call me now.  I would scramble out of my place and run to him and hug him as hard as I can and then show him greatest hiding place on earth.

A Swing is a Marvelous Thing

Here's the next article for the Chronicle.  Note:  Sheldon and Sharon Western are my aunt and uncle and the nine Steele and Western kids, my cousins.  Playing on the swing at their home was the greatest childhood memory we share.  Lieu Boyd, who lives in Maryland, where she raised her family, says she loved that swing and played on it her entire youth, but can't imagine allowing her own children to do such a foolish and dangerous thing as jumping from a tree onto a home made swing.         

          There was a swing hanging in the enormous Cottonwood tree over the canal in front of the house Sheldon Western purchased next door to his parents' home in the 1950s.  Sometime in the early 60s, he decided the rope and plank construction of the original swing wasn't safe enough for his children, his Boy Scout Troop, and practically the entire kid population of Hinckley who were constantly playing on it.  So he fastened a 100' metal winch cable high on a central limb that grew parallel to the canal below, attached wooden ladder rungs up the trunk, and built a platform in the main fork of that tree.  He tied a half-filled burlap sack to the huge metal hook at the end of the cable, but found gunny sacks didn't hold up very long, so he started experimenting with different kinds of cloth feed and flour bags for the seat of the swing.

            Kids of every age came from all over town throughout the 1960s and 70s to swing on that amazing swing.  No matter what the weather or season, you could find smaller kids jumping from the edge of the ditch to swing to the other side and older kids climbing the tree and hollering for someone to throw the bag up to them. From the platform, you would have to lean forward, holding firmly to the hook, then make a dizzying leap while wrapping legs around the neck of the bag, then settling on the stuffed sacking as it dropped into its long, arching trajectory down the length of the canal.  During the summer months, the noise of happy swingers kept the neighbors awake late into the night.  Often Sheldon would have to go out and send kids home so his own family could sleep.

            Stephanie Steele King recalls growing up with that swing in her front yard and the thrill of letting go and dropping off into a ditch full of irrigation water, fall leaves, or piles of snow.  She says 'Many a wonderful dream was had on that swing.'  The nine Steele and Western children all remember their very proper mother, Sharon, climbing the tree and then being too frightened to swing, but even more terrified to climb back down.  After much cajoling and calling from the crowd below, she leapt onto the cotton sack, landed in a cockeyed fashion, and soared through the air screaming and clinging furiously to the swing with arms and legs.  Even the youngest Westerns, who weren't born at the time, will never forget the day their mother swung out of the tree because the occasion was filmed.  Lieuwen Steele Boyd claims the film quality is rather shaky due to fits of laughter their father experienced while holding the movie camera.

            Swinging double was a popular variation of use.  One kid would straddle the bag and swing out, as he came back another child would jump on in the opposite direction.  There were times when three or more kids would attempt to swing together. For awhile an old, blue pickup truck was parked near the ditch.  Kids crowded onto the bed and cab of the truck using it as a launching pad to jump onto the swing and sail over the ditch, to kick at the leaves while at the highest point and trail toes through the water at the lowest spot.

            Sharon remembers a young man who leaped from the tree onto the swing one summer day to have the overused and weathered sacking tear free of the hook and dump him into the irrigation water.  She says he was uninjured, but came up shocked, sputtering, and without his eye glasses.  With the swing out of commission, the kids spent the rest of that day diving and searching the muddy ditch bed for a pair of glasses.  Years later a similar incident, but without water in the canal, caused a broken arm.  That was the culminating event of the swing.  Hinckley City officials came by shortly afterwards and instructed Sheldon to dismantle his swing to prevent any other injury to children of the town.

            That swing hung in the same tree and was well used and beloved for over 20 years.  Literally hundreds enjoyed the breeze in their face; wind streaming through their hair; and the pleasurable sensation of falling and then being snatched back into the long, sweeping arc of that swing.  The Steele/Western swing doesn't hold the record for the longest continuous use or highest pivotal point of a swing, but according to at least one generation of Hinckley dwellers, it was 'the greatest swing in the whole world'.

           

Baby Animal Days

            

             When the grass turns green and leaves appear on the trees, it is baby animal time.  Lambs, bunnies, chicks and ducklings are the quintessential babies associated with spring.

            When I was ten one of our ewes died giving birth to an especially large lamb.  We made a quick run to the IFA in Delta where we bought powdered milk and some dark pink rubber nipples. I remember the smell of that chalky powder we mixed with warm water. We funneled the milk into glass pop bottles, snapped on those nipples, and took on the role of surrogate mother sheep.

            We named our little orphan Cecil.  He had snowy white wool, spindly legs, and the sweetest face I had ever seen.  At first we thought it was adorable that he followed us everywhere butting us demanding more food, but as the months passed it wasn't cute anymore.  When Cecil's horns started to develop, we became increasingly alarmed at the demonstrative ways he insisted on being fed.  My brother, Jim, and I devised a scheme of offering him hay through the rails of the fence.  When he stuck his head through to eat, we used bailing wire to secure him to the fence so we could go in and feed and water the other animals without being mowed over by Cecil the Diesel, as he came to be known.

            We raised rabbits for several years.  It all started with two rabbits my Arizona grandparents gave Jim and me for Easter 1969. They looked just like the ones a magician would pull from a top hat, with white fur, pink eyes, and enormous back feet.  The phrase, 'multiplying like rabbits' is very accurate and it wasn't long before we had a small city of rabbit hutches stacked behind the redwood fence at the back of our house. 

            Baby bunnies are probably one of the cutest animals known to man.  At about two weeks old, their eyes open and their fur is silky soft.  My mom would dab a little vanilla extract on the mommas' noses and Jim and I would sit in the grass holding those darling little creatures admiring their tiny ears and delightful dispositions.

            Unfortunately, bunnies grow into rabbits. Trying to cuddle a rabbit can result in long, deep scratches and even an occasional nip with razor-sharp teeth.  Cleaning out rabbit hutches became the most despised chore.  The smell can burn holes in nasal tissues, eye membranes, and clothing.

            Ducklings and chicks are additional examples of beautiful babies who grown into demented, bad-tempered, and work-intensive adult animals.  As they develop, their lovely yellow fluff dissolves into raggedy, moth-eaten feathers; their odor is atrocious; and I have many stories of being mistreated by adult bills and beaks.

            I remind myself and all parents of these events because spring time brings the sweet baby animals, who by autumn, have changed into something else completely.  When we stop by the IFA store to get our yard and garden supplies this week, I want to be prepared to see the crates of bunnies, chicks, and ducklings, allow my children to oooh and aaah for a minute, and then depart without making any baby animal purchases.

Pass along your remembrances (about animals or anything else) to Georgia at jojaworld@yahoo.com or 801-645-4238.

Even Lamer Than Usual...

I'm feeling a bit run down this week 

(something akin to a loaded dump truck from behind).  

I can't quite seem to get my feet under me 

so I can do all that needs to be done.  

So for this week's article, this is all I could muster.  

Hopefully I can find a spring tonic 

and some energy before the next one is due.

Easter Traditions

            My memories of childhood Easters are slightly grainy, not because they were so long ago, but because for a number of years during my youth, the Primary and Sunday School teachers took our class to the Sand Dunes the Saturday before Easter.  It became a tradition to spend the whole afternoon rolling brightly colored eggs down the dunes, eating a gritty picnic, and rolling ourselves down the dunes.  I'm pretty sure my class and I owe several teachers many apologies for all the sand we ground into their car floor mats and seat cushions on the ride home after spending the day at the Dunes.         

            Actually, it is quite amazing there is any sand left at the Dunes considering all that came home with me each Easter season.  Both shoes would be full, all pockets and cuffs would be filled to capacity, and every crevice was crammed with the stuff as evidenced by the sand bar in the tub after each Easter Eve bath. 

            When I tell people of my fond Easter memories at the Sand Dunes, they look at me strangely, but I'm used to that look.  It is the same one I receive when I tell people my high school mascot was a rabbit. 

            Delta High alums who live away from Millard County know the look I am speaking of.  They also know the conversation that inevitably follows the look:

            "Your mascot was a rabbit?"

            "Yes."

            "Really?"

            "Yes."  

            [snickers] "Hmmm."

            Then I explain with pride that a Delta Rabbit is not a fluffy, flop-eared Easter bunny, but a tough jack rabbit who kicks hard, jumps high, and runs fast and that is why we are so tough to beat.  Check out who holds the 3A State Wrestling title (again!)  

            So my Easter memories are a little grittier than most people I know.  I probably still have a little sand in my ears.  Maybe I like my egg salad sandwich with that granular texture and my Easter candy coated in a fine layer of dust…hey, I'm one of those tough Delta Rabbits, what do you expect?

Kite-Flying Time

I have gotten into a routine, some might say a rut, lately with just posting my Rambling Through Time Articles here....sorry.  It seems like all I do any more is write, go to school, write, do Relief Society stuff, write, study and take tests, write, and occasionally do laundry and fix food.  


Happy spring.  Please go fly a kite for me!

One thing you can always count on in Millard County, in addition to the decent people of the area, is the wind.  The wind makes for either superb kite-flying or kite-shattering experiences.  When I was a kid I had a great deal of sympathy for Charlie Brown and his lack of kite-flying skills, but the spring after my ninth birthday I stopped feeling sorry for him because I was dealing with my own kite woes.

Every March a bucket full of paper-covered balsa sticks would appear near the toy rack at Morris Mercantile.  Word would spread like wild fire, "The kites are here" and all the kids in town would collect their quarters and head to the store.  The way the paper was tightly wrapped around the wooden sticks made it impossible to tell what the design on the kite would be, so it was always a surprise after paying your 75ȼ and unwinding the paper to discover what your new kite looked like.

The kite I opened on the steps of the Merc in March 1971 had a yellow background with a bright red Chinese dragon emblazoned on the front.  I excitedly ran home, asked my mom to attach a tail of fabric scraps, found several spools of string from previous years' kites, and headed to the pasture.

I carefully attached one end of string to the center of the kite, uncoiled a few feet of the twine, and tossed the kite into the incessant breeze.  This routine usually had to be repeated over and over, but on this particular day, that new kite caught a draft which carried is straight up into the air.  It spooled the string out so quickly, I had to grab the next ball of twine and the tie the ends together.  The air current continued to pull my dragon kite higher and higher until the second spool of string was exhausted and the kite was just a yellow speck far off in the distance. 

I was anticipating the bragging rights I would have at school the next day as I started winding the string around a wooden stake.  I kept wrapping the string around and around bringing the kite closer and closer. When it was about 100 yards out, a sudden gust of wind grabbed it, spun it upside down, and slammed it to the ground off in the distance.  I started walking and winding in the general direction of the fallen kite, exalting at the height it had achieved.  I rolled and rolled as I walked past the chicken coops, I wrapped and wrapped as I passed the pig pen, I wound and wound as I approached the corrals.  I saw the string was stretched over the top rail of the goat enclosure so I continued winding as I stepped on the bottom rung of the fence to peer over it to locate the landing place. 

Oh, the horror that met my eyes as I pulled myself up to look over the goat pen.  My kite had fallen right in with the goats and all that was left of it was some shredded yellow paper, the string, and the last bit of balsa wood support stick being chewed by the nanny goat.

I will never forget the visual image of that goat's lips, tongue, and teeth pulling those last few inches of kite stick into its munching mouth.  That picture has replayed in my mind hundreds of times over the years.  Good grief! I don't believe Charlie Brown's kite-eating tree has anything on my kite-eating goats. 

Spring Fever Rambling

This is my Rambling Through Time column for the 

3-20-2012 edition of the 

Millard County Chronicle: 

Ditch Burning Time

When the air warms up and the ground dries out, I begin to notice a waft of smoky vapor.  I inhale deeply trying to capture the fleeting scent, then realize it isn't real.  The distinctive smell drifts up from a corner of my memory every year about this time.  It is the aroma of burning weeds, grass, and leaves along the ditch banks of my childhood.  Early each spring, Hon Taylor would come by with his huge propane tank pulled by a tractor with a hose connected to his military-grade flame thrower, which he used to clean the irrigation canals of all the dried material which had accumulated over the previous year.

As small children, my brother and I were enthralled by this ritual and would follow Mr. Taylor and his marvelous contraption as he blackened the ditches all along the perimeter of our property.  The fire roared as it leapt from the nozzle and the stream of flame instantly incinerated the dead vegetation.  The blast of heat waves would redden our faces and arms as we observed the spectacle.  A time or two Mr. Taylor had to warn us to 'stand back'.  Okay, it was probably more than a time or two…but how could you resist striving for a better view of that action?

One year I recall that the large corner post of our lower corral, which was a creosote-soaked railroad tie, caught fire after Mr. Taylor made his rounds.  We hauled bucket after bucket of water down there that afternoon and thoroughly drenched the thing, but late the following night, my mom noticed an orange glow from that corner.  She and dad went out with more buckets of water and soaked the tie again. The next morning, we realized the fire had continued to smolder; there was nothing but ashes left to mark where the post had been.

After charring the ground each year, a miraculous thing always occurred.  Just like the legend of the Phoenix rising from the ashes; up through the sooty dirt of the ditch banks came the sweet, tender, spear-shaped shoots of asparagus. 

I would walk along the ditches of our property during those first weeks of spring searching for the elusive asparagri with my hunting implements of a brown paper sack and small paring knife.  It takes great persistence and fortitude to locate enough of the slender plants to make a meal.  Each expedition would take me on widening circles to procure adequate supplies of my prey.  Like any fisherman or huntsman, the best hunting grounds were secret places known only to me.

Asparagus season lasts a very short time. The stalks become woody, begin to grow tall, and develop feathery fern-like tops with red berries as summer comes on.  It takes six years for a asparagus root system to mature sufficiently to send shoots through the soil and several more years before they are large enough to cut.

During those few magical weeks of spring as I would proudly return with my sack full of prized, succulent shoots, mom would have a pot of water boiling.  After a quick wash to remove dirt and ashes from the beautiful spears, they were quickly simmered and served salted and steaming.  Pass the butter, please.

Random Rambling

           The summer of 1968 when I was six and my brother, Jim, was three, our mother was admitted to LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City for surgeries and treatment of a tumor in her adrenal gland.  She was away for nearly three months so Jim and I became Relief Society projects as we were passed from house to house to be cared for until she returned home.  I have some hazy memories of the kind townspeople who allowed us to stay in their homes, sometimes for weeks at a time.

One of those families was the Taylors who lived on Main Street in Hinckley.  Mr. Taylor was an old farmer, who walked with two canes.  He lived with his sweet wife, and their 30-something son, Ralph, who had been blinded in one eye.  There were legends circulating around town when I was young, that Ralph, as a teenager, had been hit in the face with a snowball containing something that caused him to lose that eye. Some of the stories said it was a rock, others said glass and I remember one version which claimed it was acid.  Regardless, the Taylors were charitable and allowed this couple of little snot-nosed, cry-baby kids to stay at their home for a period of days while their Dad went to work and their Mom was in the hospital.

The Taylors didn't have any toys at their house since their youngest child was an adult and I don’t believe they owned a television set. Needless to say, those few weeks were less than thrilling for Jim and me. Jim showed his displeasure at being there by running away at least once a day. A three-year-old on the run was a big sister's responsibility so I would track him down and bring him back. He was usually hiding in a haystack or old shed somewhere between the Taylor's house and our place. 

Mrs. Taylor made us liverwurst sandwiches for lunch each day we were there. She used crumbly, homemade wheat bread.  One day as we sat at the table eating our sandwiches, she decided to treat us to some Kool Aid. We thought that sounded tasty on a hot afternoon. Mrs. Taylor set out some silver-colored aluminum tumblers. (Do you remember those tall aluminum tumblers that looked like hammered metal? They made everything taste awful and I think may be the cause of Alzheimer's in many people of that generation. For some reason they are a hot ‘retro’ item now and you can buy or sell them on ebay for an exorbitant sum.) Mrs. Taylor filled two of those shiny, metal cups to the top with orange punch.  Jim and I each took a big, thirsty gulp only to be shocked into nearly spewing it all over the Formica table. Mrs. Taylor hadn't added the cup of sugar to the water and little packet of orange powder. It was nearly the nastiest-tasting stuff we had ever tasted, but our parents had demanded we be polite, say 'thank you' and eat/drink everything we were given and never be wasteful, so I dutifully and miserably swallowed every drop of bitter Kool Aid.  I was never so relieved to see the bottom of one of those ugly cups.  I had to coax, threaten and cajole Jim into finishing his punch. He kept sipping and making faces.  Just as he finally drained the last dribbles from his tumbler, Mrs. Taylor walked back into the kitchen and cheerfully refilled both cups with more of the sour stuff. Without even a pause for breath, Jim burst into tears, jumped from his stool, and ran out the door to find another hiding place.  

Do you have a Random Childhood Memory you would be willing to share? Please email Georgia at jojaworld@yahoo.com  She will help write it up to share with Chronicle/Progress readers in this space. 

Near Perfection

The sanctity of the track has been absolute the last two mornings.  There were no shrieking teenage track team members; there were none of the normal chatty, middle-age walking groups; no speed-demon racer charging up behind me; there was just me, all alone with the whole track to myself for a full hour two days in a row.

The full moon was beyond spectacular both mornings.  Yesterday I watched it setting in the west and gleaming across Willard Bay in a glorious manner.  This morning it was in a more southern position and seemed like a spotlight because of its brilliance.  I could read my watch and pedometer without having to come into the pool of light from the parking lot...amazing.  It was so bright, I could actually tell that the new track suface is indeed red.

With a beginning like that, I should be able to do well on my biology quiz, write two Chronicle articles, clean my house and make a nice dinner for the kids who are gathering to have their dad help them do their taxes  today.  Heck, with a beginning like that I should be able to do something really spectacular....hmmm what should it be?